Familiar
by redhead88
Summary: "Arya." Still, she doesn't turn to him and the burn he felt moments ago is on the brink of igniting. She always did get under his skin. He tries a different tactic." (One-shot turned Chapter, renamed) Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Hate is a familiar emotion for her. It's easier than love. She has nothing to offer love—it's left her alone and broken. Love is a waste, but hate? Hate is useful. Hate is power. Hate and vengeance and justice all serve her better. She doesn't even know if she knows how to love anymore. It's lost on her.

She rests her head on the rock supporting her, glancing at Thoros. He kept swigging at that skin of wine while tears streamed down her face. She loathes the tears and wipes them away with her dirty ragged shirt.

She is alone. Utterly alone despite the cave full of grown men. She spies Gendry asleep next to her out of the corner of her eye, and something clutches at her heart. She shoves it away, closing her eyes to stop any more tears that threatened.

_Stupid_.

He was so stupid. He was going to die. And she realizes that's what has her terrified: she knows he's going to die.

That's what they all do: they die. They die and leave her behind. Anger rolls like waves over her and she has the sudden urge to hit him while he sleeps, not the friendly jest she usually does. No. She wants to **HIT** him- wants him to feel everything she's feeling, the pain of everything that had transpired in the last day. She crosses her arms around herself to stop herself from picking up a rock and bashing it into the side of his head.

_Stupid_.

* * *

AU Note: I own nothing and no one. I just write from my own mind.


	2. Chapter 2

_She's dead._

His brain is talking to him, but his mind isn't listening. She's standing there. Right _there. _It's her. He knows. His breathing has sped up and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He can't see her face, but he knows.

The years have changed her. What once was a young girl is now a woman full grown. Her hair is long, waves of thick dark hair falling past her shoulders to the middle of her back.

She's facing the the sea, the misty wind catching her tresses and billowing her dress about her. He can see the form of a woman beneath the dress, a form that surely wasn't there so many years ago on the road to the North. He feels on fire, his body threatening to alight in flames if he doesn't move.

He takes a step to her, up the small hill separating them. Another step and he's nearly directly behind her.

"Arya." It's not a question. She doesn't turn and he's close enough to see that she's trembling. His hand moves of it's own accord, reaching out for her but he stops it. He can't touch her.

"Arya." Still she doesn't turn to him and the burn he felt moments ago is on the brink of igniting. She always did get under his skin. He tries a different tactic.

"M'lady." She whips around so quickly he's afraid she's going to fall. But then he's face to face with her and he feels as if he's been punched in the stomach, the air forced out of him. Maybe he has, he has no idea. The only thing in his field of vision is _her _and though he hadn't needed any more confirmation, his eyes connect with hers- grey and stormy as he remembers- but older. So much older.

Everything about her is older. Her cheek bones framing her petite feminine (when had that happened, he wonders) face, her lips full and pink, and her eyes fringed by thick lashes. He quickly wonders why he never noticed what a beauty she was all those years ago before remembering the grime, the walking, the hunger, the filth they had lived in. He notices now though: notices how the sheer layers of her simple dress cannot hide her age, her beauty.

Something pools in her eyes as she stares at him and he wonders what it is before it escapes to make it's way down her cheek before she quickly wipes it away.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice, light and _womanly_, catches him off guard- nothing like the she-wolf girl he had known and more like a woman he doesn't know. He blinks. What **is** he doing here? He doesn't care, he just says the first thing that come to his mind.

"I thought you were dead." Her brow furrows at this and she blinks, a confused look replaced with an cool one. He's so _close_ to her, just an arms length and he doesn't know if he really believes it.

"Dead or alive: I'm surprised you cared." She answer him evenly, without emotion and something akin to pain shoots through his chest. She hasn't forgiven him, hasn't forgotten him leaving her despite her being the one stolen away. She draws a deep breath through her mouth and lets it out, closing her eyes. She opens them, leveling a look at him that he can't read and moves past him, making her way off the cliff. He's frozen in place. She looks up at him having switched places now and her brow furrows again, as if she's trying to make a decision. She opens her mouth to say something, shakes her head making her long tresses whip around her elbows, and snaps it shut again before walking off leaving him alone.

A fear grips him, pushes him after her. He makes his way off the cliff back to the docks and follows her. His men yell after him about something but he waives them off.

"Figure it out!" He yells. He's not letting her get away, not this time.

She's walking quickly, but not fast enough to lose him and he wonders if she does this on purpose. He calls out to her in question.

"Arya?"

She turns to him, all eyes and lips and cheek bones in the wind of the sea. He catches up to her, tries to say something but she cuts him off.

"Come on, _stupid_."

Stupid. A name that should irritate him but when she says it then, he's never felt more at home.


	3. Chapter 3

The men are loud- drunk, stomachs full, and content. It had been a long time since he'd seen his men this lively. The inn was nice- Arya's suggestion and he had taken it. He watches her now, cup in her hand smiling a small smile at something one his men says to her but it doesn't reach her eyes. He's noticed this about her in the few weeks he's been with her. She smiles, she speaks, she moves, but her eyes never reveal anything- no emotion, no thoughts, not even motives which used to give her away during swordplay. They are just a grey storm of deadness- a beautiful grey storm, but dead nonetheless.

He wonders what happened to her during the time they were separated. Her cool and detached demeanor had ebbed away after a day or so, only to give way to utter rage directed at him. She'd found him one morning after he'd been here for a few days and he could see the difference in her. She was wearing trousers and a tunic too large for her, a dagger attached to one hip and a sword on the other. Her body practically buzzed with the anger pulsing through her, still her eyes remained cold and stormy, dead. He had looked at her with a question in his eyes while she leaned against the wall behind her and ground out between clenched teeth:

"Why?"

A knot had grown in his stomach then, because he knew exactly what she was asking and it was so different looking at this Arya- the woman Arya- when he had to think back to girl Arya with her voice breaking and tears in her eyes.

_'I could be your family.' _He had known that would never be. The moment they stepped foot in Robb's camp she'd be Lady Arya Stark and he'd still be the low-born bastard he was. It wouldn't have mattered to her. Her family might have indulged her for awhile, letting her visit him when she wanted. But eventually... it would have mattered. And it was his head to lose if there were any accusations of untoward behavior. She would have become his lady, his better, and he'd be serving her brother and her family and that would never change. He couldn't. He _wouldn't. _So he'd bent a knee and the Brotherhood without Banners had knighted him and it hit him that he'd broken her young girl's heart. How could he even begin to explain this to her, this grown Arya with the festering wound of a child she had once been?

He had given her a sad look and he swore he almost saw a flash of fire in her eyes when he did so, as if to say that she didn't want his pity. But he had blinked and it was gone- replaced by the lifeless eyes. He sighed and struggled for the words. He said the only thing he could think of and willed her to understand.

"I'm a bastard."

Literally and figuratively, he thought now as he watched he drink her slowly and place the cup on the table slowly, her eyes catching his for the first time of the night. He couldn't help it and the sides of his mouth turned upwards and he smiled at her. She lifts an eyebrow in return and looks away, focusing on some story being told at the table.

* * *

Most of the men have left, gone off to bed in a drunken stupor. Those that are left are gathered around the large fireplace in a corner of the inn. Arya's asked about the war and battles and the few men crowded around the flames are more than happy to indulge her curiosity. He takes another drink of ale and his head swims a little. He's had enough ale for the night and sets the cup down. Arya sits by the fire, her long willowy dress spread around her outstretched legs as she listens intently to the tale of the Battle of Blackwater and he's still surprised at this: that she owns and actually wears dresses. Granted, they aren't the stiff and constraining dresses that were designed for modesty like in the North where she'd been born. No, he thinks as he stares the outline of her legs under the thin layers of fabric, they are meant for free movement and agility here. The fabric as sheer as can be but layers and layers of it wrapped around her frame and held in place by some sort of metal clasp at her shoulders, leaving her arms exposed. They are shapeless- just yards of fabric- unless caught in the whipping sea wind causing the dress to tug at her frame, reminding him that she's not Arry anymore. And unless indoors, the wind never ceases here.

He realizes that he's been staring at her legs and he feels a slight warmth creep up his neck and quickly looks away, his face settling on the nearest target which happens to be her breasts. The warmth spreads further and he wishes he hadn't drank so much ale. He jerks his gaze away as quickly as possible only to be caught by her eyes. Had she been watching the whole time? Her grey eyes bore into his for a moment before darting away and she's asking a question about wildfire as if she hadn't noticed him staring at her. Blood is pounding in his ears and he takes a few deep breaths, trying to still himself.

_Shit._


	4. Chapter 4

She's so much like the sea he thinks it's a shame she didn't come from a family that lived near one.

Captivating and terrifying.

Yes, she was so much like the ocean, he thought as he watched her pace through his room at the inn. He could barely make sense of what she was saying, she was speaking so quickly and moving in such fluid motions.

He chuckled lightly and placed a hand on her arm.

"Slow down."

She looks at his hand like she's never seen one before. He realizes that this is the first time he's actually touched her since he found her again. He withdraws his hand from her arm and she's stopped pacing, only to stare at him for a moment before turning to face the window and sucking in fresh sea air like she's never breathed it before. Her voice is small when she speaks.

"Jaqen is coming back tomorrow."

A little flash of anger rolls in his blood. He'd forgotten about Jaqen. He watches her for a hint on how he's suppose to react to this news? Was she trying to tell him something or just making a statement? What if she and Jaqen... Do Faceless Men take women to their beds? He didn't know. Her face was blank so he prompted her.

"And?"

She sighed and turned to him.

"You can't stay here forever, Gendry. You'll have to go back to Westeros eventually, sooner rather than later I'd say."

Was she telling him to leave? He couldn't read anything from her: Her eyes lifeless and her face blank. Her dress swished around her in the breeze from the window and he wished he could close it because he can't concentrate when she was standing there. Her hair moved with the wind and he was struck again by how much she compliments the waves, the wind of the sea. Or, rather- how it complimented her.

Is she telling me to leave? Will she stay? Questions he hadn't thought of bloomed in his mind. He'd only just found her again, could he leave her again? Again, he prompted her, seeking more of her thoughts as he leaned against the frame of his bed.

"And?"

She sighed and moved toward the fireplace, staring at the small fire he kept lit. He silently thanked the gods- all of them, whichever were real- that she'd moved from the window so that he could think properly.

"I think it's time I went home."

He blinked.

That was unexpected. He'd seen her face of longing when he'd explained that Bran and Rickon were alive and well, rebuilding Winterfell. And Sansa was in the Vale, safe as she could be at the moment. A look of relief, shock, and surprised had flitted across her features though they didn't touch her eyes. But then longing had overcome all of them and for a moment his mouth and throat had gone dry at the sight. But he still wasn't sure that she would give up her freedom here to return to Winterfell. This surprised him.

"Are you sure?" He asked her.

She shook her head and looked at him, her face framed by the sun of the sky and the flames of the fire. "I'm not sure of anything anymore."

What about that business with Jaqen, his mind wondered.

"And Jaqen- will he not miss you?"

Her head moved quickly toward him, a question on her face and tight smile on her lips.

"Why would he miss me?"

Gendry shrugged.

"Sounded like you two were close."

She turned toward him, facing him with a hand on her hip and one on the mantel of the fireplace.

"And if we were?" Both hands on her hips now, defiance mingled with brazen curiosity.

Gendry thought he'd rather stab his eyes out with arrow than discuss Jaqen with Arya right now, when she was standing in his room with one of those damn dresses on and face as playful as he'd yet seen since getting her back.

He bit his tongue hard.

"No, I just don't... Don't want you to leave if you have something here to keep you." He said as nonchalantly as possible. Arya laughed.

The sounded lilted it's way over to him, swept over him like a breeze. He hasn't heard her laugh in years- literally: years. In fact, he wasn't sure he could remember her laughing. She relaxed, her shoulders rolling back and hands falling to her side, shaking her head slightly.

"Stupid. Jaqen and I aren't anything. He's a friend, my only friend here actually. But nothing more. He doesn't keep me here."

Something similar to relief washed over him.


	5. Chapter 5

He looks at her, there in the corner of his room sitting by the window staring at the sea. He's suppose to be working: working on the details of their departure next week. But he's distracted by her distraction.

She's been unusually quiet since their conversation about Jaqen. She wasn't naturally conversational, he remembered her younger self and the silence of their travel and time together in Westeros. But this was something different. This quiet was full of something ready to spill forth. He can see it in her face: seeing her surroundings but not altogether there. He wonders what is under her surface silence.

A strong breeze moves through the room and he blinks as he realizes it's from Arya as she escapes his room with the wind of her speed chasing her. One moment she's right there and the next she is gone without a word.

He follows after her, rushing down the stairs through the inn and out into the streets but she is too quick for him even in her damn dress. He curses under his breath and he feels a sense of dread at losing her again.

He moves through the city asking about her here and there but she is too stealthy for anyone to have seen her. He reaches the docks in short time and stops short when he spies her and he inhales sharply.

She is captivating- standing there amongst the ships and men milling about. Standing tall and straight, her shoulders back and her long hair moving against her body that is clearly outlined by the drape of her dress caught in the sea wind. She is strong and vibrant amongst the filth of the docks and he wants nothing more to take her away from this place, as if she doesn't belong in the place that she had lived for five years now.

It's only a flash of a moment before he takes in the entire scene and not just her. She is speaking with a man, a tall man with red hair with one lock of blonde hair running through it.

_Jaqen._

Blood rushes to his ears and anger boils in him. Jaqen's face is not the face that he had last seen all those years ago. It is different... younger and more wild. He knows it is not Jaqen's true face but he can see small emotions roll over the features as Arya starts speaking and though he cannot hear the words from this distance he knows what she is saying, because her motions give it away. She points to his ships, the ones that he had sailed here in and then back to herself before becoming still. Jaqen's eyes give him away and Gendry watches him look over Arya with a small amount of sadness and resignation. He nods his head and reaches out to touch Arya.

Gendry's entire body tenses, not sure what to expect. Would it be the touch of a lover? A friend? Or foe? He didn't know and part of him didn't want to know. He just wanted _her: _to take her with him and to leave this place where he didn't know her, where she was someone new and frightening to him. He watches as Jaqen's hand lands on her arm and he pulls Arya toward him and Gendry has to fight the urge to move, the sudden desire to _kill_ Jaqen. He's never been a violent man, war only makes men violent as needed, but he now grasps why some men are.

But instead of pulling Arya closer to himself, Jaqen leans in slowly and his lips touch the top of Arya's head in a quick motion before he releases her. Gendry's breath shutters out of him and he hadn't realized he'd been holding it. It wasn't a kiss of love or even lust, it was a gift of parting. If Gendry hadn't known better, he would have swore it was the same way in which a father parts with a beloved child. But then: what does he know of fathers loving their children?

Jaqen hands Arya two small bags and Gendry watches her shake her head, her hair bouncing around her elbows. Jaqen's hand rises in a swift and sure motion to cease her arguing, and he can see the reluctance in her shoulders as she holds her hands out to receive the small bags. It isn't a breath's time after she accepts them that she has thrown herself into Jaqen's arms and is hugging him fiercely, making Gendry chuckle despite himself.

_That_ is the Arya he remembers. But he can see the tears staining Jaqen's cloak and his inward mirth dies. Jaqen's eyes meet his in that moment and Gendry wishes he could dig a hole where he stands. Jaqen's eyes are dark and Gendry knows what he is telling him silently, what his eyes are saying to him. Gendry nods once in acknowledgment. Jaqen pushes Arya from himself and touches her chin once before looking at Gendry, telling Arya that he is behind her. She swings her head around and he can see the tears still wet on her face and her eyes wide before she looks back to Jaqen, nods to him and turns away, walking to Gendry with her eyes on the ground.

Jaqen watches her the entire time, until she reaches Gendry. She sighs deeply before looking him in the eyes. Her grey eye's are _**alive**_ and if he had been but a little weaker, a little less the man he is, he would have fallen over right there in the middle of the street. But he is not weaker and he is not a lesser man, so instead he reaches out to her and touches her wrist, it's small size surprising him for the strength in it and her eyes never leave his and he gently tugs her hand toward him. She allows him this: allows him to pull her gently toward him, past him, as she makes her way past him back to the inn and he lets her go on her own, his hand falling back to his side. He turns again to where to Jaqen stood to see him still standing there, his dark eyes still boring into him with unspoken threats and words and messages. Gendry doesn't respond this time but instead turns and walks toward the inn, following Arya.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: This was written before the last two episodes and to be honest, I had a really hard time deciding if I should post this after watching those. The plot line took quite a different direction on the show (even from the books, which I haven't read but have a little knowledge on). But in the end, I think this is ambiguous and internal enough that facts and timelines can handle a skew with a little stretch of the imagination from the reader. Also, I am not one for posting notes on stories however I would like to say thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favorited, it's very flattering! I appreciate the feedback very much.

* * *

He finds her at the inn, standing in the doorway like she'd forgotten why she had entered. He nearly plows into her, his feet coming to a stop abruptly but his body still in forward motion.

"Arya?"

He asks gently, like he's talking to a spooked horse. He slides by her to look at her face.

She blinks and drags her gaze up to his eyes.

The fire in them is raging strong and sure, the flames practically bouncing onto him as he stares at her. She shakes her head in a minuscule movement and her eyes- grey, stormy, fierce- flicker to the stairway that leads to the rooms, his room. He nods and they move out of the crowded inn. He doesn't know what's going through her mind as he climbs the stairs, listening to her quiet footsteps behind him.

The minute he opens the door to his room, she glides past him with a silent whoosh, the long billows of her dress grazing his legs before trailing after her. Her voice is strong and thick when she speaks.

"I need to go home." He closes the door and turns to her.

"You are. We're leaving in a weeks time." He reminds her. She nods her head, turning her back toward him just slightly.

"Bran and Rickon... I've been gone for so long." The words catch in her throat, he knows. He moves to the table next her, walking by her slowly. She looks at him out of the corner of her eyes.

"I don't even know if they'll recognize me."

He wants to scoff at her. There's no mistaking she is a Stark: her dark tresses and grey eyes are enough to give it away. But he knows her concern is serious and so he shakes his head.

"They will." She turns to him, staring at him.

She reminds him then of the old Arya- the young Arya that he knew. He feels a twist in his gut and a pain in his chest, because all he see's is woman Arya with her wind swept hair and curves where they had been none, a testament to the length of time they'd been apart. He nearly winces but holds it back because she's staring at him.

"Gendry?" She asks, her brow furrowed and he must have let something slip across his face. He stifles whatever it was and says "hmm?" in the best nonchalant voice he can muster. Her brow smooths and she walks to his bed, sitting with a small sigh on the edge of it, lost in some deep thought.

He knows that look. He remembers it.

He remembers everything. He remembers her being tiny and so young... So young that now- as he thinks back- it makes him angry for her. Angry at her loss, angry at everything that everything was stripped from her and not just her childhood, but her life, her family, her hope. He remembers her initial courageous stupidity that only belonged to those who had seen too little of life, too little of the harsh world, and he remembers watching it smolder into a deep seeded anger as she had grown during their time together. She was a child who needed him at the time.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself back then.

Because he was older and stronger and a boy and she was small and stupid brave and a little girl.

He remembers all of this now, as the man that he is. A man who had seen too much, been at war for too long, who had experienced more than he ever thought possible when he was young and just watching out for a little girl on the kings road because she would go off and get herself killed without thinking about it.

Killed, or raped. More likely both.

He thought he could help her, but he didn't. She'd been taken and so had he and they'd both spent monumental years apart. She is young and old to him for a moment, memories of her mingling with the presence of her and it leaves him feeling empty and conflicted.

She didn't need him now, not in the least.

He'd seen her with a sword in her hand. It both burned and ignited something inside him to say it: she was more lethal than he would ever be.

She had blood on her hands, he knew and could see it in her face when he looked at her, catching her in quiet moments when she was tired or exhausted, the lines of death and decay ghosted over her eyes.

He glances at her, taking her presence in and there is a familiarity there- with her. But so much less when his eyes sharpen, truly focusing in on her and her features. The familiarity is in her face and her smallness, but much less in her form, in the way in which she moves now- with the fluidity of a skilled fighter and the graceful ease that only a woman can possess. Her words have even changed, in the way she speaks with mingled accents and the way she seems to think through what she will say before she says it. Her rash anger in constant check now from the years spent with the Faceless Men. She's as fierce as ever, but it's a simmering fierceness that lays just underneath the surface whereas years ago it had bubbled forth whenever she deemed fit to let it.

And despite the fact that she didn't need him now, she was still here. And ready to return with him, to leave this place behind so quickly.

He's not stupid, despite what she calls him. He's a man and back when he had first spied her standing on the cliff watching the ships like a statue, when she had spun on him and an errant tear had fallen down her face, something in his gut constricted and he wondered why she still remembered him- the stupid bastard boy from years ago on the road to the Wall. He hasn't dwelt on it though and pushed it out of his mind, because... Well, she was _Arya_ and he was _Gendry_ no matter what they had done and what they had seen and how much time had passed or how changed they might both be.

But as he looks at her, all these thoughts collide somewhere in his brain making him feel like his mind can't keep up with it all: all these memories and moments and the here and now and the way it is now compared to then.

It's different now no matter how he's trying to fool himself into thinking it's not. It has nothing to do with memories of then and everything to do with the now, because neither of them are children any more.

He's sure that she knows that he's been fighting against himself, fighting to let their friendship be what it was- innocent and a necessity in the middle of a world torn to hell. But he can't lie and say it's a necessity now because it's not: it just **is** and he's not sure what it is because he's been finding himself more and more distracted and aware of the woman he's sharing a room with now then the memories of the young girl he once knew.

And even more startling to him, what makes him feels slightly disgusted with himself is that he's not entirely put off by it, that the tension between them- albeit, unspoken- is more comforting to him then the memories of her, that he'd rather have her now then what she was years ago, if only for his own selfishness and his recognition of his own pull toward the woman who was once was a girl he knew.

"Gendry?" He blinks.

She's standing in front of him, close enough to touch with a question on her face, one brow raised and a look of confusion on her features.

"I asked about the plans for travel..." Her voice trails off toward the end, her eyes holding contacting with his while he feels like he's just waking up from a dead sleep, the fingers of confusion slowly loosening their grip on his mind.

He shakes his head.

"Everything is arranged. The only thing you have to do is just come with me." He meant to say us, he realizes after it's out of his mouth. He scowls, not liking how his mind seems to be in a fog, weighed down by thoughts and he wishes he could just go back to before she had fled his room after Jaqen, before he got himself wrapped up in conflicting thoughts and lost memories. He's irritated with himself.

"I don't have to go with you." Her voice is steady, and his eyes whip to hers because he realizes he's been staring at nothing. His scowl deepens as he stares at her, her words adding to his mind pain.

"What?" He asks like he's stupid. He has no idea what she means.

"You got this rather pained and annoyed looked on your face when I just asked you about the arrangements. If you'd rather I not go with you, I can find another way." She's giving him a pathetic look, a look of resignation mingled with a tinge of fierceness to show that she's capable of making her own way. He consciously smooths his scowl, realizing how she had seen him, and offers her a smile.

"What? No. I don't want that at all. I was just... Thinking too hard. Of course not, you're not taking a different ship back. Don't be ridiculous." She smiles at him.

"Thinking? Not your strong point." She throws him a teasing smile, her eyes full of light, as if she hasn't just been wondering about her family and her return and all the implications behind it because insulting him is easier than facing any of that. He chortled and leaned against the desk he stood next to.

"I've been getting better, learning more, m'lady." He smiles at her because he knows not to call her that.

"Do not call... Oh, bug off with your m'lady's. I suppose I could call you m'lord now too." She throws back at him, volleying his insult into his court.

She's smiling at him, but it's the first time he's heard her acknowledge his changed status and the titles he now carries that he hadn't before. He's thought of it often since he's been here, the fact that they are now on equal ground regarding their nobility, that if anything he is of higher status than she because he is a King's bastard.

Legitimized, but still bastard.

"I'm no lord." He says because he doesn't feel one, no matter the ships he's sailed here or the men he's brought along under his banner (his uncle's banner, he tells himself) or the coin in his pocket that never used to be there.

She laughs at that, one hand braced on a chair next to her and a hand pressed between her breasts as if her laughter hurts her heart. He can't help but smile watching her mirth. Her laughing slows and she looks at him, still smiling.

"Who's loathing titles now, m'lord?" She spits out m'lord as if it's a curse word but the rest of her words are friendly and filled with amusement. He likes this, he realizes. This quick and easy enjoyment together between friends. He laughs with her.

"I don't loathe it..." But he's lying and she's staring at him with an incredulous look. He throws his hands up in defeat. She laughs again, the rich sound escaping her belly as she says to him "if you say so, m'lord." He shakes his head.

"Who's annoying who now, m'lady?" She groans, then chuckles.

She points to herself. "I've always been Arya. You're Gendry. Can we just agree on no more lords and ladies now?" She's smiling at him, her face glowing from the laughter and her eyes bright.

He doesn't think he could say no to her then if she'd asked for the entire seven kingdoms.

He smiles.

"Alright, alright," he says with a shake of his head," no more lords and ladies." She nods her head at him before smiling triumphantly.

They both know they're lying.


End file.
